The Klipfish Code by Mary Casanova Page B

Nazis gave to making every Norwegian turn in their blankets, gum boots, tents, rucksacks, and the like to help the German army—it was surprising that anyone had anything left. Aunt Ingeborg had insisted that the children keep one
dyne
hidden away during the day and take it out only at night. "Paper blankets are not enough to keep children alive in the winter," she'd said angrily.

    Unlike other years, when baking had filled the air, they merely talked about their favorite cookies:
sandkaker, krumkake,
and
fattigmann.
Herring and salted cod were stored in the cellar—Bestefar made sure of that—but sugar and white flour were impossible to come by.
    "Christmas isn't the same without Mama and Papa," Lars kept saying, as if by saying so he could make them magically appear.
    If he said it only their first Christmas apart, it wouldn't have bothered Marit so much. But this year, she couldn't stand it any longer. "Stop!" Marit blurted, turning on him. "If they really cared about us, they wouldn't have sent us away!" Her angry words flew out. "They don't even remember they have children!" She cupped her
hand lightly over her mouth. To her own surprise, her words had come seemingly out of nowhere.

    Aunt Ingeborg spun around, holding a wooden spoon in the air. It dripped batter. "They sent you away for your safety, Marit. Don't say such things!"
    For a few long moments, Marit studied the floor. It seemed that lately every word and thought about Mama and Papa made her angry. Though they'd received a few vaguely worded letters in the past year—it was a comfort that they were alive—it would be so much easier to go through the hardships of war together with her parents than apart from them. If she were a parent, she would never send her children away to be cared for by others. In a time of war, didn't kids need their parents more than ever? And yet, beneath her burst of anger, she really
did
understand that Mama and Papa were doing what they had to do. On Christmas Eve especially, she knew they'd rather be together as a family, too.
    "I'm sorry," Marit said quietly, glancing up at her aunt and then at Lars. "I know they care. It's just so hard sometimes."
    Her aunt hugged her. "I know."
    After Marit bathed with the last bit of soap, Aunt Ingeborg wrapped Marit's hair around narrow strips of paper, just as Mama would have done. That night, with knots all over her head, she struggled to sleep. She
wanted Christmas to come, but another year without Mama and Papa made her almost wish away the holiday.

    On Julften—Christmas Eve—they sat down after their chores to the traditional dinner of boiled potatoes, brown goat cheese, mashed green peas, and
lutefisk.
Aunt Ingeborg had worked many days soaking the dried cod first in water and then in a lye solution to soften the fish, then in water to remove the lye. The fish filled the house with a nose-pinching odor, worse than Papa's socks after a long day of skiing.
    "
Lutefisk
stinks!" Lars complained.
    "Wouldn't be
Julaften
without it," Aunt Ingeborg replied.
    Even without sweets—or Mama and Papa—Christmas was under way.
    After dinner, they put on their cleanest clothes—no new outfits. Not even the
bunad,
which her aunt had apparently lost courage to work on. Marit brushed out her curls and tied her hair with the red taffeta ribbons Aunt Ingeborg had saved for her.
    Although
risengrot
—the traditional porridge of white rice, cinnamon, sugar, and a little butter—wouldn't await them after church this year, Aunt Ingeborg had promised them something made out of millet. And whoever found the almond—this year it was a button instead—was assured a good year ahead.
    "To church," Bestefar said, and held the door open.

    In wool scarves and coats, boots and mittens, they trekked to church, each wearing a required "blackout mark." With the small illuminated tag on their coat lapels, the Germans could see them moving about after the